


Unfinished Gomens Babyfic

by fireflyslove



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Getting Together, Kid Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Some Metaphysical Bullshit likely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-08 04:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireflyslove/pseuds/fireflyslove
Summary: "Demons don'tcreate, Angel! You know that!" Crowley snapped.Or: Crowley and Aziraphale finally work it out, and in the process, something Weird grows in Aziraphale's linen closet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just gonna say right up front that something Weird from the summary is a baby. Well. A "baby", a new celestial being who is the product of Crowley and Aziraphale's love. Because I'm a predictable bastard and babies are one of my top two tropes. (See... like every Captain America fic I ever wrote). 
> 
> Title, well. Holy Ground is the fic title I've been holding onto for a good six years, no fic was ever worthy, but this is finally the one. I hope. It's after the Taylor Swift song, y'all.
> 
> Update: 4/17/20: Retitled because this apparently wasn't the one... 
> 
> Chapter count may go up or down and rating may go up depending on how Frisky these two get.

In the six thousand years they’d known each other, Aziraphale and Crowley had often gone years and decades (and even a few centuries) without seeing each other. Hell, after the incident in St. James’ Park in 1862, Crowley had spent the better part of the next eight decades asleep. The Arrangement had brought them into closer proximity, they’d see each other at a Very Covert Rendezvous every few months to exchange assignments. But after Crowley delivered a baby in a basket, they had become the celestial being’s equivalent of joined at the hip.

After Armageddon-that-wasn’t, after they forsook their hereditary sides, their first inclination (well, Aziraphale’s first inclination) was to go back to their old ways, to see each other in bandstands and parks once in a while, to have tea or dinner on alternate Sundays. 

So imagine Aziraphale’s surprise to find Crowley practically always within arm’s reach. At first, it was annoying. Heaven was a spacious place, and angels were large beings. Aziraphale simply wasn’t used to someone being so… close to him all the time. The humans who flitted in and out of his shop flickered across his angelic presence, barely even registering on it. But Crowley was, as Aziraphale, much larger than his mortal form. 

Aziraphale had never seen Crowley’s true form, it never seemed the right time to ask, but the lanky human form he wore barely seemed to contain it. Sometimes, if Aziraphale tilted his head and squinted just right he swore he could see wheels testing the edges of mortal flesh. What Crowley was was not really the issue, it was how… big he was. He pulled on Aziraphale like he had his own gravity, a planet pulling on its moon. Or, perhaps, a pair of binary stars. (After Avoidageddon, Aziraphale had absorbed nearly all of humanity’s knowledge of Alpha Centauri.)

He was always aware of Crowley, had always been, except when the demon left the mortal plane for Hell. Crowley had a particular feeling, something Aziraphale had never been able to describe in any of the many human languages he spoke. It had been there since the beginning and only gotten stronger as the centuries wore on. With him so close all the time it washed over Aziraphale in waves. It wasn’t unpleasant necessarily, it was  _ distracting _ . 

It came to a head one day, in the autumn after the end of the world. Aziraphale was up on a ladder, doing his (completely unnecessary) quarterly inventory of the top shelves. The Crowley-feeling rushed up on him like an incoming tide, nearly knocking him sideways. He turned around to look at the demon.

Crowley was sprawled across an armchair tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the bookshop, his limbs taking up far more space than he should seem capable of. A book dangled loosely from his fingers. At a glance, Aziraphale recognized it as a first edition of one of Tolkein’s works, though the cover was currently facing away from him. He was smiling, a genuine thing that reached his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and for just a second, Aziraphale’s completely useless breath left him. 

He shook his head and turned back to the task at hand, muttering under his breath about demonic temptation. Crowley, of course, heard him, and snorted. 

“It’s not that hard to tempt you, angel,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale whirled around again, completely heedless of the ladder. It was only because he wasn’t paying attention and believed himself to be safe that gravity ignored the motion. “Excuse me?” he snapped.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Crowley said, sounding half-serious. “You’re just an easy mark. A little good food here, a rare book there.”

Aziraphale found that he wasn’t actually offended at the remark. “Oh, but I’m playing the long game here. I’ve drawn a demon into my den. You can’t be out tempting if I know where you are at all times. It’s thwarting of the highest degree!”

“Ah, well, I’m going to have to consider myself caught then,” Crowley drawled in a deep voice. “Such a shameful thing for me, a demon. You’ve caught me in your angelic net. Whatever are you going to do to me?”

“I could smite you,” Aziraphale said, abandoning all pretense of inventory. He turned so his feet were firmly planted on the ladder, his shoulders resting against the shelf. “But that would be messy. Require paperwork.”

“You like paperwork,” Crowley countered. 

“Or so I’d have you believe,” Aziraphale said. “Paperwork in triplicate is the work of yours, isn’t it?” 

“I think that was actually the humans,” Crowley said. “Though it’s devilish enough that Hell should take credit for it.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to think of something else to do with you, then,” Aziraphale said. 

“With me or  _ to _ me?” Crowley asked, emphasizing the word he himself had used.

Another flood of the Crowley-feeling came over Aziraphale and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks with the flush of it. 

“For right now,” Aziraphale said, plucking his pocket watch out of his pocket, “I think dinner is in order.” 

“Oooh! We should have Thai,” Crowley said, dropping the deep voice he had affected for his normal one.

“There’s a new place just down the street,” Aziraphale said, coming down from the ladder. 

Crowley snapped the book shut and put it gently on a table next to the chair. (Aziraphale saw the title now,  _ Return of the King. _ ) He pulled his glasses from his jacket pocket and pushed them up his nose. “It’s a nice night for a stroll, I think.” 

(And it was, now. A few seconds previously it had been pouring.)

Aziraphale tugged his waistcoat into place, tucked his hands in his pocket, and led the way out of the shop. Crowley flipped the sign to  _ Closed  _ on the way out, and with a snap of his fingers, the blinds drew themselves and the locks clicked. 

It was a twenty minute walk, if they were going leisurely. There was no wait, though most of the tables were taken. Aziraphale looked over the menu, trailing his fingers down the food-words. He glanced up once to find Crowley looking at him, the same crooked grin on his face. 

“What?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Crowley said, scrubbing a hand over his mouth, and looking down at the menu. “Just… you.”

The waitress arrived, and Aziraphale ordered for both of them, knowing Crowley wouldn’t actually care. He’d have a few bites and let Aziraphale finish the rest. Though, the demon did like outrageously spicy things so Aziraphale ordered something special just to suit that. 

“So, you’re reading Tolkein now?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Hmm? Oh! Well, I’m trying,” Crowley said, then flushed. “Finally got around to seeing the movies, figured I’d read the source material. With all my new spare time.”

Aziraphale didn’t comment on the fact that all of Crowley’s new spare time was spent within spitting distance of Aziraphale, because he got the impression this was going to be something they Did Not Talk About.

“Trying?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley scrunched his nose up and shifted. “Yeah, uh. Yeah.” 

Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to push this, clearly. But well, Aziraphale was stubborn and he loved books and he loved Crowley ( _ wait what? Never mind, ignore that. Yes. Ignore it like he’s been doing for centuries _ ). He leaned forward, obviously waiting for Crowley to continue. 

“‘S just my eyes,” Crowley said. “They’re not made for reading. The words go all squirrely.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. He’d never considered  _ that _ . “I didn’t realize.”

A little of the flush left Crowley’s face, just as the food arrived. 

The spicy dish Aziraphale had ordered put the flush back in, but Crowley’s smile also returned. As predicted, Aziraphale ended up eating most of the food while Crowley watched him eat. 

They paid, with real money, and wandered out into the crisp autumn night. It was delightful weather, and Aziraphale found himself reluctant to return to the shop so soon. He wandered in the general direction of a local park, and Crowley made no objection. 

“Did you try audiobooks?” Aziraphale asked out of the blue.

“Hmm?” Crowley asked. 

“Audiobooks,” Aziraphale repeated. “Then you don’t have to read the words.”

“Ah,” Crowley said. “Yeah. Didn’t work, I just couldn’t pay attention long enough. Always find myself wandering away to water the plants or glue myself to the ceiling or something.”

“That’s too bad,” Aziraphale said. 

“Tell me about it,” Crowley said. “Fuckin’ frustrating,” he muttered.

Aziraphale leaned closer to him and bumped their shoulders. The gesture could just be passed off as a simple stumble, but both of them knew it wasn’t. Neither said anything. 

They wandered back to the shop and proceeded to the back to get sloppily drunk, as was their wont. On his way by, Aziraphale picked up the book Crowley had been reading earlier. 

Crowley settled into his usual place on the couch, hand stretched across the back, his golden eyes bright in the low lamplight. Aziraphale, rather than settle into his customary chair, dropped onto the couch, not quite in Crowley’s personal space, but far closer than he would usually be. Crowley handed him a glass, and he sipped slowly before pulling the book from his pocket and opening it to the page it indicated Crowley had been on.

He cleared his throat and Crowley glanced at him curiously. Aziraphale began to read aloud. Crowley had made it to the middle of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, just after Eowyn’s defeat of the Witch-King.

“  _ And one of the guards answered: 'The Steward of Gondor is in the Houses of Healing.'  _

_ But Éomer said: 'Where is the Lady Éowyn, my sister; for surely she should be lying beside the king, and in no less honour? Where have they bestowed her?'  _

_ And Imrahil said: 'But the Lady Éowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know?'  _

_ Then hope unlooked-for came so suddenly to Éomer's heart, and with it the bite of care and fear renewed, that he said no more, but turned and went swiftly from the hall; and the Prince followed him. _ “ Aziraphale read the text, his voice a soft, steady roll. 

He looked up from the book at a sudden sniff from Crowley, and found the demon’s eyes tearing up.

“Crowley?” he asked, putting the book down.

Crowley scrubbed his hand across his eyes, swearing softly. “‘S nothing,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale hesitated, but decided to push mulishly forward anyway. “My dear,” he said gently. “It’s clearly not  _ nothing. _ ” He put his hand on Crowley’s leg and the demon stiffened at the contact. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Crowley said. “I’m … I’m not ready yet.” 

_ Yet _ . It was strange, Aziraphale would reflect later. He had always been the one to put stops and roadblocks up, but now it was him going too fast for Crowley. 

Aziraphale squeezed once, then pulled his hand back. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “I’m right here.”

Crowley looked at him, his expression open and stunned. “What a pair we are,” he said. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said. “Do you want me to continue?” 

“Please,” Crowley said.

A warmth suffused Aziraphale as he read the words, something he recognized as his own feelings for Crowley, when he glanced up occasionally to find the demon’s eyes shut and a smile on his face. He wasn’t sleeping, no, he trusted Aziraphale enough to completely let down all his defenses around the angel and just  _ listen. _

And Crowley  _ had _ always been such a good listener. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage Aziraphale quotes is from _Return Of The King_ Chapter VIII: The Houses of Healing, J.R.R. Tolkien.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've adopted Crowley, he's mine now. 
> 
> (I'm violently projecting onto him, and if you're my boyfriend you may recognize some of this as exact quotes from me)

It was tipping toward Christmas, one of Aziraphale’s least favorite times of the year. For some reason, it always drove people into the shop looking for “just the perfect gift”. It was, quite frankly, disgusting. 

Now, as an angel, Aziraphale knew he should be more receptive to the Christmas season, but really, what was all the fuss about? He’d spoken to Jesus on more than one occasion, and had it on good authority that the man was  _ not _ a Capricorn. 

(He was a Gemini.)

Nevertheless, for some reason, Crowley seemed to delight in the season, and Aziraphale found himself making concessions, letting Crowley put up a hideous tree in the window. He drew the line at having an angel on top of it, though. That was a bridge too far. 

(He’d never find out, but the whole “Christmas tree angel topper” thing was Crowley’s idea, and the original one had been modeled on Aziraphale himself. The irony never escaped Crowley.)

Early December brought light snow to London that was usually gone by the next day, but while it lasted, people rushed in and out of establishments along the street. He heard the bell over the door go off no less than sixteen times in an hour and had to tamp down the desire to snap at the rosy-cheeked shoppers who bustled in and  _ touched  _ everything. 

Crowley wasn’t even doing his part in threatening the “customers”. Usually a demon lying sprawled on a couch, his face buried in his phone made people nervous. But no, Crowley was nowhere to be seen these days. He was still in the building, but he had expressly forbidden Aziraphale from entering the flat upstairs nearly a week ago.It never occurred to Aziraphale to object to being banned from his own flat, but then again, he rarely used the space except as more storage for books. 

All Aziraphale knew was that he occasionally heard shouting and cursing in at least eight different languages. Crowley appeared in the evenings, looking frustrated and slightly singed around the edges, and practically melted into the couch in the backroom. They had fallen into the habit of drinking good wine while Aziraphale read aloud. He had found that Crowley was willing to listen to whatever he was reading at the time. Currently they were making their way through Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s  _ Sherlock Holmes _ . 

(Crowley had admitted one night when he was well into his cups that he was personally responsible for Steven Moffat’s  _ Sherlock _ .)

It was 3:27pm on a Tuesday when the door to the flat banged open and Crowley practically tumbled down the stairs. He was wearing a frilly apron, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white powder coated his arms, and there was something red streaked his face. 

Aziraphale was in the middle of trying to dissuade a woman from buying a personally inscribed Byron. She shrieked when Crowley came up behind her and (ahem) crowed, “Angel, I finally did it!”

“I’m sorry, we’re closed, you’ll have to leave,” Aziraphale said. 

“Excuse me?” the woman said. 

“We’re closed now,” Aziraphale said. 

“Well I never,” she said, and huffed her way out the door. The only other person in the shop saw the exchange and quickly made their exit. 

“Now, dear, what did you do?” Aziraphale asked. The shop sign miraculously flipped itself to  _ Closed _ .

Crowley reached out to seize Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him up the stairs. 

Aziraphale hadn’t actually been upstairs in the better part of a decade, and he was surprised to find the place transformed. It took him a moment to process the difference 

The haphazard stacks of books had been neatly arranged onto shelves, the dust cleaned away. What had previously been a small kitchenette was now a fully functional kitchen. In contrast to what Aziraphale remembered from Crowley’s flat, all industrial stainless steel and glossy marble, this was… homey. 

Cream-colored enamel appliances that wouldn’t have been out of place in a 1940s kitchen and a warm butcher block counter on vibrant green cabinets. The walls (and here, Aziraphale turned around and found the entire place just a little different) were a warm cream. There were rugs, elaborate Persian things of the style that Aziraphale preferred, tossed at just the right place on the floor. The entire place was suffused with the smell of baked goods.

“When did you do all this?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to the room.

“Do what?” Crowley asked. He had a sheetpan in one hand and a confused expression on his face.

“You didn’t redecorate?” 

“No, it was like this when I came up here,” Crowley said. “You’re saying it wasn’t always like this?”

“There was never this much furniture,” Aziraphale said. “And there’s an oven now.” 

“Yes! The oven!” Crowley said, and thrust the sheetpan at Aziraphale. 

The angel glanced down at a dozen cookies. Tan circles with red filling. 

“Shortbread thumbprint cookies,” Crowley said. “The filling is raspberry jam.”

Aziraphale picked one up, glanced up at the demon for a moment, and then put it in his mouth. Crowley’s eyes, wide and unguarded by his usual walls or his usual glasses, stared at him, unblinking. He bit into the cookie, the shortbread melting in his mouth, the jam just the right kind of tart to cut the sweetness of the biscuit. His eyes snapped shut of their own volition, and a low sound of appreciation escaped his mouth. 

“Crowley, those are delicious,” Aziraphale said, opening his eyes and reaching for another one. 

“I don’t know how many batches I burned,” Crowley said. 

“Worth it,” Aziraphale said, biting into a second cookie.

Crowley set the sheetpan on the table, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s face. “Angel,” he said, his voice suddenly so quiet Aziraphale almost didn’t hear him.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I… I… I’d… shit,” he said, scrunching his eyes shut and banging a fist against his leg. “Goddammit.”

Aziraphale reached a hand up to squeeze Crowley’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, fearing he’d scare Crowley into closing himself off again. 

Crowley rolled his head so his cheek brushed Aziraphale’s hand. “You’re too patient with me,” he muttered. 

“ _ I’m _ too patient?” Aziraphale asked, a laugh startled out of him. “After everything you’re accusing me of being the  _ patient _ one here?” 

Crowley muttered something under his breath that Aziraphale didn’t quite hear. 

“What was that, my dear?” Aziraphale said. 

“I’ll walk right up to the fucking line, but I’m too much of a damn coward to cross it,” Crowley repeated, just a few decibels louder. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his thumb reaching up to brush Crowley’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”

Crowley closed his eyes again and took a steadying breath, and then opened them, looking at a point just over Aziraphale’s head. “I’d like very much to kiss you,” he said all in a rush.

Heat crept up Aziraphale’s cheeks, even though he had been expecting the request. He smiled encouragingly and nodded, “I think I’d like that,” he said, and moved his hand from Crowley’s shoulder to his cheek, gently tugging the demon’s head down to meet his. 

Crowley tasted like the cookies, undercut with the bite of sulfur. His lips were soft and a bit dry, but it had been well over a century since Aziraphale had kissed anyone, and this was far better than he remembered kissing being. 

It was brief, no more than a few seconds, and Crowley was drawing back, his eyes wide and stunned. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips and he said nothing for a long moment.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hi,” Crowley said dumbly. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, a smile blossoming on his face. 

“That was nice,” Crowley said. 

“Given a little more practice, it could be better than  _ nice _ ,” Aziraphale said. 

“It’s not… too fast?” Crowley asked, his hand jerking reflexively toward the sheetpan of cookies.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “No. I… think I’ve finally caught up to you.”

An expression (hope?) crossed Crowley’s face, and then his fingers were buried in Aziraphale’s hair and their lips were nearly glued together. 

Aziraphale grabbed a double handful of Crowley’s shirt and pulled him forward until Aziraphale’s back was against the wall, Crowley bracketing him in. Crowley had shoved him into countless walls over the millennia, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to deny the  _ ideas _ it had put in his head. And now he was going to live out at least a little sliver of one of those ideas. He pressed his luck just a little, and his tongue gained entry into Crowley’s mouth. 

Aziraphale’s hands crept down from Crowley’s front to grab at the fabric across his back, fingers tangling with the apron strings. He had the sudden urge to miracle both of their clothes away, to shove Crowley to his knees and… 

Wait. 

Slow down. 

He very, very carefully slowed down, chastening the kiss until it was just a dry press of lip to lip. Crowley leaned back, his pupils dilated until all that remained was a thin yellow rim. Aziraphale smiled encouragingly at him. 

“Something the matter, angel?” Crowley asked, his voice raspy.

“Not at all, darling,” Aziraphale said. 

“Then why…”

“There’s some things that should be discussed before we do anything  _ rash _ .”

“Things?” Crowley’s voice wavered just a tiny bit.

Aziraphale brushed an encouraging thumb over Crowley’s cheek again. “We can’t circle around things forever,” he said. 

“Seemed to be going fine for us just now,” Crowley said, probably to himself. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, just a little exasperated. “I’m a very bad angel, but I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

“You think you’re taking advantage of me?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “And I want to keep it that way.” A cold finger of doubt slipped up his spine, probably unwarranted, but, “It’s non-negotiable. I’m going to need explicit consent from you.”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley said. “I’d expect nothing less. It’s one of the reasons I-- uh, well, one of the reasons we’re friends.”

Aziraphale didn’t comment on Crowley’s aborted statement, instead he tugged his coat back into place. “You made cookies,” he said.

“Yes!” Crowley said. “Baking’s bloody  _ infernal _ .”

“That’s why I always have other people doing the cooking for me,” Aziraphale said, voice pitched low, like he was sharing a confidential secret.

“You burn water, don’t you?” 

“No, I believe that’s Hell’s domain,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley burst into laughter, and Aziraphale relaxed. They were going to be just fine. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found anywhere an angel flaps @fireflyslove.


End file.
